


'Til we Close Our Eyes for Good

by dendral



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Canon Divergent, Gen, Violence, vladimir lives! - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-03-30 20:57:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3951484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dendral/pseuds/dendral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't often that Anatoly found himself on the run from people he'd never gotten involved with, taking the first train to Moscow with his little brother in tow, no home to go back to and no belongings except what he had taken with him. At least they were still alive, though.</p><p>An origin story of sorts. Also known as the fic with big brother Anatoly and little brother Vladimir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I know almost nothing about Russia in 1996, and everything in here was the result of poor attempts at too-specific Google searches that yielded very little.

The winter of 1996 had been cold, as all winters in Russia tended to be. Perm had been covered in snow since late October. November had gotten colder and early December was coldest by far—colder than Anatoly could ever remember being. Then again, he felt like that every December. Come January, he was sure he’d think _that_ was the coldest he’d ever been. It was a cycle.

“Anatoly,” his mother greeted, as frigid as the weather, when he entered the house, wiping his boots on the rug at the front door and tugging his scarf down from his face. His cheeks were red and his hair frozen in place. The snow followed him in and he brushed it off his shoulders to the floor.

“Come on, Mama,” he replied with a grin. “It’s not that late—it’s only ten.” She wouldn’t look at him. His grin dropped off. “Mother,” he said, voice lilting into a question at the end. Her face was drawn and her muscles were tense. Her hair was frizzled and the front of her shirt rumpled, like she’d been trying to smooth it down for hours.

Instead, she stood as he approached and clasped his hand in her own. She opened her curled fingers over his palm and something was pressed into it.

He felt paper. A wad of rubles was being pushed into his hands. Anatoly stared down with wide eyes. He counted up the wad. There was upwards of ten thousand rubles. “Mother, what are you—?”

“You must go. Take the first train to Moscow,” she said, voice hard as she gave him his brother’s passport. Her mask was cracking. Anatoly could see the exhaustion and the sadness in her eyes, but she kept her lips a hard line.

“Where is father?” he asked. His stomach felt tight and his chest hollow. This couldn’t be happening, could it? He knew his father owed a lot of money to the mafia—he had owed money for years and kept requesting extensions on payments. It had only been a matter of time before they came to collect, even with the promises of deadlines pushed back for the sake of his children, and yet…

And yet.

“He’s not coming home.” At this, his mother’s stern expression fell away and all that was there was longing. “Those men. They will be coming here next for their payment. We don’t have enough money. I tried to give you a good life, I really did, and so did your father. You have to understand, Anatoly, we did our best.”

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not your fault I fell into bad business,” Anatoly said. “I just wanted to help father with the payments. Drugs make money.”

“I know, Anatoly. I know.” She sighed and stared out the front window. “You father was supposed to return home three hours ago. The fact that he did not means the men killed him. I don’t want you involved with those crooks anymore, Anatoly. Your brother will try to copy you, you know that.”

Anatoly winced. She wasn’t wrong. Vladimir had been begging to go with him on his deals for weeks now, insisting he was old enough. “Where is Vladimir?”

“Upstairs. He was studying for a test he has tomorrow.”

“You will be okay here? By yourself? Are you sure you want us to go? I can stay. I can protect you—”

“Anatoly,” his mother scolded. He stopped short and looked at his feet. She hadn’t used that tone of voice on him since he was eighteen, two years ago. He felt foolish for saying such a thing. He knew better than anyone, after all, that his mother could protect herself. “You know as well as I do that if you do not leave, all of us will die. Vladimir included.” And she was right. If even she couldn’t protect herself from this, how could _he_ ever hope to?

She stepped forward and cusped Anatoly’s face with her hands. “My son,” she said fondly, tilting her head and smiling sadly up at him. “You are a grown man, twenty years old. Vladimir is only fourteen. Please take good care of him. He loves you very much.”

Anatoly focused on his boots. They were caked in snow and mud and he had the impulse to take them off before going up the stairs. His mother hated when he tracked dirt into the house and shoes of any kind were forbidden on the second floor.

That was irrelevant now, though, wasn’t it?

“Go,” she said. “And take Vladimir’s schoolbooks with you. He is bright. I don’t want him to lose his chance at a better life.”

Anatoly sighed, bit his lip, then pushed past his mother and took the stairs two steps at a time. He wandered into his own room and packed a few changes of clothes in a bag, enough toiletries to last a week for two people, a razor, two packs of cigarettes, and some magazines he kept for—well, to pass time when he was alone in his room. He pulled out the money he’d been keeping hidden, money he’d earned from deals, and stuffed it inside his spare shoes. He dropped those into the bag as well. He left his room, closing the door quietly, and set his bag down at the top of the stairs, then strode down the hall, stopping outside of Vladimir’s bedroom door. He rapped on it with gloved knuckles and opened it.

The lamp at his desk was still on. The bed was unmade, blanket laying partly on the floor. A bulging school bag rested against the leg of the wooden desk, open. Vladimir was passed out over an open textbook at his desk, cheek pressed against his forearm and mouth hanging open. He wore his light blue sweater and jeans. He still had his socks on. His shoulders moved up and down with each breath. He wasn’t drooling yet but Anatoly was sure he would be in a few hours if left alone. He shook his head.

“Vladimir. _Bratishka_ ,” he said, stepping forward to tap his brother’s shoulder. “Time to wake up.”

Vladimir jolted up, blinked blearily at Anatoly. He ran his hands over his face and through his scruffy hair, then squinted at his digital clock. It blinked at him in red numbers, 22:15. “What?”

“Put all your textbooks in your backpack. Take some pencils too, and some of those other books you like to read,” Anatoly said and wandered into Vladimir’s closet. He grabbed the biggest duffel bag and Vladimir’s winter coat off the hangar. He tossed it at his brother as he walked out, then pulled open drawers and indiscriminately shoved articles of clothing into the duffel. “We’re leaving now. I want you to go downstairs and put on your boots.”

“Where are we going?” Vladimir asked as he slipped the sleeves over his arms. There was no question of why and Anatoly paused, considering this.

His little brother knew what was happening, why Anatoly was rushing, why he was stuffing clothes into a bag as fast as he could. Vladimir was too smart for his own good, too sharp, like a knife. He turned to look at his little brother, bright blue eyes staring at him with something Anatoly couldn’t identify. Fear? Disappointment? Anger?

“Moscow,” Anatoly said eventually, moving on to pack a few pairs of socks and a pair of sneakers.

Vladimir said nothing. There was the sound of his chair scratching against the wooden floor as he pushed it back, the rustle of paper as books were being shoved into the backpack.

Anatoly blinked. He turned around again and rushed to Vladimir, yanked him up by the shoulders. Vladimir let out a squawk of surprise.

“What the hell happened to your face?” he demanded, grabbing Vladimir’s chin and tugging it up so he could see his brother’s face better. There was a big, purple bruise over his right eye, at the edge of his brow. “What did I tell you about getting into fights?” Anatoly barked.

“It wasn’t my fault, ‘Toly,” Vladimir exclaimed, shoving Anatoly’s hands away. “Those bastards at school wouldn’t stop talking shit about you!”

“Language,” Anatoly growled.

“I’m fourteen, what does it matter? You swear all the time! I’ll do it again. Shit. Fuck. _Mudak_.”

“Vladimir,” Anatoly warned. “Don’t start this now.” His brother glared at him. “I’m going to remember this later, once we’re in Moscow, and you’re not going to enjoy the talk we’ll be having.”

Vladimir rolled his eyes and stood, slinging his half-open bag over his shoulders. He left the room in a huff and Anatoly listened for the thump of feet on the stairs before he moved again.

He checked to make sure he had everything he needed, included Vladimir’s toothbrush and some first aid supplies, before heading downstairs with both duffels in hand. Vladimir sat in the kitchen with their mother, lacing up his snow boots, keeping his head down as their mother busily put wrapped food in his school bag. He wouldn’t look at her.

He was trying not to cry, but Anatoly could see the tears brimming in reddened eyes, could hear him sniffle quietly.

Their mother saw Anatoly and beckoned him over. Anatoly stood in front of her and leaned down as she kissed him goodbye on both cheeks, ordering him to be careful. She gave him Vladimir’s documents and the keys to her third generation Moskvitch, the one she’d saved up to buy for five years and owned for ten. The car hadn’t been fancy by any means, uniform and driven by almost everyone, but she loved it all the same for its longevity. And now she was giving him the keys. Anatoly almost felt unworthy of it.

There was the sound of an engine by the road, in front of their house. “Go out the back and leave through the side gate,” she told him, hurried and hushed. “They’re here now.”

She zipped up Vladimir’s backpack and gave it to him. He stood, wiping his eyes, and shrugged it over his shoulders. “Mama, I…” He faltered, voice cracking.

“No crying now, zolotse,” she said, hugging him. He buried his face in her shirt and didn’t utter a sound. She let him stay like that for a few seconds before pulling away and kissing his face, then pushing him towards Anatoly. “You must go now.”

Anatoly guided Vladimir in front of him and trotted out the back door at his heels. As the door closed behind them he could hear a knock at the front.

They slogged through the snow to the side gate and shoved it open against the slush. Anatoly put his finger to his lips and hurried Vladimir to the car, glancing to the side every second. There was one car in the driveway and the headlights were on, illuminating the closed garage door. The light danced off the snow into a harsh, yellow glare. A man, not paying attention, sat in the driver’s seat, reading a magazine by flashlight, cigarette between his lips.

The Moskvitch was parked along the street, windows covered in frost and the hood in a layer of white powder. He unlocked the side door and bundled Vladimir into the passenger seat. Anatoly jogged around to the back and wrenched open the trunk, dumped their luggage in it, then dashed over to the driver’s side, slipping on the ice. He steadied himself against the cold metal and stretched out one arm, brushing the snow off the windshield and letting it cover his jacket. He pulled open the car door and was getting in when there was a sharp crack, like a branch being snapped in half.

He went stiff, head swinging around in the direction of the gunshot—the house. He was frozen; mouth agape, chest heaving, and heart pounding. He couldn’t hear anything except the roar of blood in his ears. His breath misted in front of him, floating away in white puffs. He stared at their home, at the car in the driveway with its sick yellow light and its dented bumper, at the path to the front door.

They shot her. He knew they were going to kill her and yet it surprised him.

He didn’t move until two men, rugged and dark haired and faces covered by their caps, came into view. He yanked the car door shut and jammed the key into the ignition. The men were shouting, muffled by the wind and the roar of the car engine as it came to life. They were shouting expletives, promises of murder. Anatoly shifted the gear into drive and slammed his foot down on the pedal.

The car lurched and plowed through the snow, speedometer needle steadily moving up.

They fired their gun three times, three consecutive bangs. “Get down, now!” Anatoly barked, shoving Vladimir’s head forward. Vladimir ducked and wrapped his arms around his head. The back windshield burst into shards. Anatoly glanced in the rear-view mirror. Fragments of glass covered the back seats, the streetlights glinting off them like knives.

The other two bullets missed, hitting the snow behind them, and Anatoly saw the spray of snow that went up where each landed.

He drove at one hundred thirty kilometers per hour until they had left the neighborhood far behind them and reached the roads to the center of the city. He slowed the car, eased his foot off the accelerator, and looked at Vladimir.

His brother was quivering. At first, Anatoly thought he was crying. He kept glancing over, worried he’d been hurt, that the glass had cut him or that a bullet had hit him.

But when he finally hit a red light and looked at his little brother—truly looked—what he saw frightened him. Vladimir’s shoulders shook and his hands were clenched into fists against the dashboard. His jaw was tight, teeth grinding, and he stared straight ahead, eyes filled with something Anatoly had never seen before. His eyes were violent. They were hateful. Vladimir was seeing nothing but red; red like their flag and the blood that pumped through their bodies.

“Vladimir,” Anatoly said, and those eyes turned to him, filled with wild storms.

Vladimir’s temper had always been fierce, like fire, but this—this was the rage of a young child wronged, a child that had lost almost everything, a child who’d had too much innocence ripped away in one fell swoop. This was the fury of someone who had yet to understand that visible rage would get him nowhere and unreadable expressions would get him everywhere. This anger lacked the crazed wrath of madmen, the viciousness of bloodlust, the bitter taste of revenge.

Anatoly looked at his brother, an odd feeling of calm sliding over him, and knew that this would be the last time Vladimir’s anger would be so pure.

When they reached the train station the car’s clock read midnight, and they ditched the Moskvitch in the parking lot, keys in the backseat. It would be useless to them now and Anatoly saw no reason to keep the keys when they couldn’t take it with them.

He sat Vladimir down on an empty bench by the ticket booth with their luggage. The woman working there was wrinkled and hunched, skin rough after years of long winters and living conditions under Stalin.

“Two tickets for the next train to Moscow,” he said, pulling the wad of rubles from his pocket.

“All we have left are third class,” she said.

“That’s fine.”

“Six thousand rubles, then.”

Anatoly counted out the money and slid it under the glass to her. She took the money, counted it again, and eyed him suspiciously as she printed out the tickets and gave them to him.

They walked to the platform designated on their tickets and waited. The train would arrive in two hours, if on time, but in the current weather it was difficult to tell whether it would or not. The inside of the station was freezing, just as cold as outside but lacking the biting wind. The anger had seeped out of Vladimir and he sat slumped, backpack on the ground by his feet, staring at his hands folded in his lap. His cheeks were flushed and his nose was running. He had no scarf and wasn’t wearing gloves, and his fingertips were starting to turn blue.

“Vladimir, where are your gloves?”

“I forgot to grab them before we left,” he said.

Anatoly frowned and pulled off his gloves. He took Vladimir’s hands and rubbed them, then tugged the oversized gloves over his fingers and down to his wrists. He took his scarf and shook out the snow, and wrapped it around Vladimir’s neck, covering the lower half of his face. “Can’t have you freezing to death,” Anatoly murmured.

They sat there for what seemed like years. Anatoly watched the snow falling on the tracks and Vladimir’s head rested on Anatoly’s shoulder, eyes half lidded and unfocused. Anatoly made sure not to move too much so he wouldn’t disturb his brother’s doze. Instead, the train did it for him, its whistle a sudden, shrill whine. Vladimir was startled into a more conscious state and he gripped Anatoly’s sleeve, fingers digging. Anatoly leaned over and bumped his shoulder against his brother’s. Vladimir’s grip loosened. The train lumbered into the station, an hour later than scheduled, and with a hiss, stopped moving forward.

A few people trickled out. Anatoly and Vladimir made their way to the Platzkart carriage and boarded. The inside was warm enough to melt the snow on their shoes. They shuffled down the aisle until they found free seats and empty beds. Vladimir set his backpack on one of the seats and slipped out of his wet boots, then shed the scarf and gloves. He climbed into the top bunk over the chairs and huddled under the covers, face towards the wall.

Anatoly settled on the bottom bunk across from Vladimir’s. The conductor came by and checked their tickets. Anatoly then stored their luggage on the bunk above his own before sitting down. He watched Vladimir for a while, waiting for his breathing to even out and the tension to ease out of his muscles; waited for him to fall asleep. Eventually, Anatoly uttered a quiet “ _Bratishka_ ,” and Vladimir didn’t respond.

Finally, he was able to relax.

Anatoly sighed, pushed his damp hair out of his face, and sat at the small, square table under Vladimir’s bed with a piece of crumpled paper he’d fished out of his wallet.

He would have to plan. Make arrangements. Find somewhere to stay until he could get a job and make enough money to afford a place to live. That would be difficult in Moscow, where apartments were expensive and houses more so, and there weren’t enough jobs for the number of people. He had money but it wouldn’t last more than a few weeks for one person, let alone a grown man and a growing boy. Anatoly supposed he could finally call in a couple of those favors owed to him—God knew he needed them.

Anatoly leaned back and sighed, staring at the paper with phone numbers scribbled in thin handwriting. He listened to the clattering of the wheels on the tracks, felt the rocking of the carriage. It would be twenty hours before they reached Moscow, but in this weather Anatoly figured it would be at least twenty three.

At least they were safe.

For now, they could rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bratishka: little brother  
> zolotse: sweetheart  
> mudak: asshole  
> Moskvitch: Soviet car manufactured by the company AZLK, and later its successor, OAO Moskvitch. The company dissolved in 2006. Driven by many Soviet citizens during the late twentieth century.  
> Platzkart: 3rd class train carriage  
> \----  
> Honestly? Who knows if this will get continued. This was originally going to be a small scene that turned into something much longer. Mostly I wanted to see what it would be like to have Vladimir be the younger one. I've decided I like it. Anyway, if I continue, you'll be seeing a lot of these two before they became involved with the mafia in Moscow. Hope you enjoyed.


	2. Today Will Be Better, I Swear

Anatoly tapped his foot impatiently as the payphone rang. The train ride had been delayed three hours but it had been smooth. Vladimir had slept almost the entire way and Anatoly had come up with possible plans to take once they’d gotten to Moscow. But now that they were here and almost all the plans relied on one person picking up their phone, anxiety filled Anatoly’s chest. He was jittery—his hands quivered and he felt the need to bounce on the balls of his feet like a child. His breathing was rushed and his mind raced with all the possible negative outcomes, telling him everything that could go wrong and was currently going wrong. What if no one picked up? What would he do then?

He glanced back over his shoulder through the glass at where he’d left Vladimir on the closest bench with their luggage. His brother was hunched, cheeks red and nipped by the cold and the wind, gloved hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. His face was miserable as he watched Anatoly. The bruise over his brow was still a purple splotch and to compliment it he had dark circles under his eyes. Even though he’d done nothing but sleep during the train ride, it looked like he hadn’t slept well.

The ringing stopped as someone picked up the call and a sleep-laden, irritated voice slurred, “It’s three in the fucking morning. Who is this?”

“Sergei,” Anatoly said into the receiver, relief flooding through him. “It’s me. Anatoly.”

“Anatoly? You better have a good reason for waking me up this early.”

“I’m in Moscow—came in by train. I have my brother with me.”

“What the fuck?” Sergei said, confusion replacing exhaustion. “Why is your brother with you? And what are you doing in _Moscow_?”

“It would take me too long to explain. Vladimir and I—we’re safe for now, but we need a place to stay. We were in a rush and have very little money, so I thought maybe I could finally take you up on the favor you owe me.”

There was a pause, the only sound on the other end being Sergei’s breathing.

He sighed. “Fine. What station are you at? I’ll come pick you up.”

“Yaroslavskaya station. We’ll wait out front for you.”

“I’ll be there as fast as I can.” There was a click as Sergei hung up. Anatoly let out a breath and put the phone back on the hook.

He shoved the door to the payphone open and let it slam shut behind him. He beckoned to Vladimir as he picked up both of their bags. Vladimir slowly stood and shuffled after Anatoly as they exited the station, fingers gripping tightly to the sleeve of Anatoly’s jacket.

Fresh snow fell to the ground and the light of the street lamps shone bright on the white surface. The wind seemed harsher now that they were outside. They found another bench out by the street and sat. Vladimir leaned against Anatoly’s shoulder and didn’t speak, just stared blankly out at the empty road, eyes unfocused.

His brother was in shock. He’d slept so much and spoke so little—and that was to be expected. Anatoly felt at a loss himself. He wanted nothing more than to curl up somewhere, close his eyes, and pretend that the world didn’t exist. The only thing keeping him going was the need to get somewhere safe.

Anatoly breathed out through his mouth, watching it mist in front of his face, and put his arm around Vladimir’s shoulders, pulling him closer. He couldn’t begin to say what Vladimir was thinking of, if he was thinking anything at all. His brother thought too much, too often—the cogs of his mind were always turning and their mother had been convinced that Vladimir would get to college (after Anatoly hadn’t, of course), maybe even get out of Russia. “He can go to America,” she’d say at the dinner table, wearing a soft smile that she only wore for Vladimir. “They have good universities.”

They never had much money, not when their father had constantly been paying off debts. Even then, their family had never been rich—their parents growing up in the Soviet Union had seen to that.

“I don’t feel good, ‘Toly,” Vladimir murmured into Anatoly’s jacket. “Can’t we go back inside?”

“A friend is coming to pick us up. He’ll be here soon.”

A lifetime seemed to pass before Sergei’s car, an ancient-looking beat-up Lada, pulled up to the curb. He got out of the driver’s seat.

Sergei was the kind of man that Anatoly felt never got any sleep. He had a perpetual look of exhaustion and his default expression always looked bored. His lips were thin and his hair short and black. He had a long face, gaunt and withdrawn. At first glance, he looked like a dangerous person to be around, but his eyes always held a kind glimmer and he was soft-spoken. If it weren’t for the business they were in, Sergei could’ve been a caretaker—Anatoly was certain of it. The man was good with kids.

“Throw your bags in the back,” Sergei told Anatoly. Anatoly stood and shook his hand.

“Thank you so much, Sergei,” Anatoly said. “This really means a lot.”

“What’s wrong with your brother?” he asked, jerking his chin at Vladimir, who stayed sitting on the bench, eyes gazing at nothing.

“He’s, ah…” Anatoly didn’t know how to explain it. “The trip. It’s been rough for him.” Anatoly leaned forward so his mouth was close to Sergei’s ear. “The Bratva got to our parents. We had to flee the house,” he muttered. “Vladimir, he’s… I don’t think he’s taking it well.”

Sergei cleared his throat. “I’ll deal with it.” Anatoly raised a brow but moved out of the way. He opened up the trunk and tossed their luggage in.

Sergei knelt in front of Vladimir. “You’re Vladimir?” Sergei asked.

Vladimir’s eyes focused on Sergei’s face. He nodded. “My name is Sergei. I’ve known your brother for a long time. We’re going to go to my apartment. You’ll be safe there.” Sergei paused. “Are you okay with that plan?”

Vladimir’s jaw was working. He bit his lip. His gaze moved away from Sergei. He nodded again.

Sergei looked at him for a few seconds longer before gently taking Vladimir’s chin and moving his face up so the light shone on it. He made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. “He’s catching something, Anatoly. The cold and stress are making him sick.” Sergei straightened up. Anatoly dashed over and pressed his hand to Vladimir’s forehead, but his own skin was too cold for him to feel anything. Vladimir’s cheeks were flushed pink but the rest of his face looked clammy. Anatoly felt awful—he should’ve listened to his brother when he said he felt unwell.

They ushered Vladimir into the back seat of Sergei’s heated car. Anatoly hopped into the passenger seat.

The drive to Sergei’s apartment was long and quiet. Static-filled music played from his radio and the windshield wipers went back and forth at a steady tempo. They finally reached a short line of apartment buildings an hour later. They were shoved together and three stories high. Trash filled the gutters and the streetlights were dim, some broken. Sergei parked on the opposite side of the road.

Anatoly stepped out of the car and opened Vladimir’s door. His brother was fast asleep, head lolling against the headrest. Anatoly frowned and gingerly poked Vladimir. “C’mon, Vlad. You can go back to sleep in a moment, but we must go inside.” Vladimir lifted his head up and opened his eyes with what looked like monumental effort. He climbed out of the car and wobbled on his feet.

Anatoly rolled his eyes. He turned and kneeled down. “Get on, then,” he said. Vladimir climbed onto his back and Anatoly stood, hooking his arms under Vladimir’s legs. “You’re getting too big for me to keep doing this, you know.” Vladimir muttered something incomprehensible and pressed his cheek into Anatoly’s shoulder. Anatoly couldn’t help but smile. His brother’s weight was familiar.

The last time he’d given Vladimir a piggyback ride was four years ago. He wondered why it’d been so long.

Anatoly began to regret his offer to Vladimir once they entered the building Sergei lived in. Sergei lived on the top floor and the only way up was by stairs. Vladimir’s weight wasn’t too much of an issue for Anatoly—it was his height. His brother was taller now, becoming a gangly teenager with limbs too long for his body, and each step up the stairs Anatoly took involved maneuvering Vladimir so Anatoly didn’t drop him. Sergei glanced over his shoulder and laughed at Anatoly’s distressed expression.

“Shut up,” Anatoly grunted.

Sergei opened the door to his apartment once they reached the third floor. He turned on the lights, dropped the bags by the sofa, then wandered into the kitchenette. “You two need something warm to drink. How long were you waiting for me? You both looked half frozen when I got there.”

“I don’t know. A few hours, probably,” Anatoly said, depositing Vladimir on the sofa. He pulled his gloves off his brother’s hands and rubbed them. Vladimir watched him from lidded eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Vladimir replied.

A ‘tsk’ escaped Anatoly’s mouth as a laugh found its way out of Sergei’s. “Watch your language.”

“I don’t have a guest room, only the couch and the floor. Vladimir can use my bed for tonight,” Sergei said. A kettle brewed on the stovetop. “You can take the couch, Anatoly.”

“No, no, I can sleep on the floor,” Anatoly replied. “We’re already being an inconvenience as it is.”

Sergei shrugged. “Okay, you can have the floor. I won’t fight you. I’ll set up some blankets. My bedroom is down the hallway to the left. Go put your brother to bed. We need to talk.”

It unnerved Anatoly how unresponsive Vladimir was as he showed him where he was sleeping for the night. His brother complained endlessly about how tired he felt when he was sleepy. He’d get annoying with it, moaning about how he hated Anatoly for waking him in the mornings to go to school and whining about wanting to take a nap upon getting home (though Vladimir’s “naps” tended to involve him passing out completely until midnight, so he had been barred from taking naps until homework was finished). If Vladimir was tired, there was no way to keep him from mentioning it. This time, though, Vladimir followed in silence and, upon entering the bedroom, merely took off his boots and flopped down onto the mattress, still dressed in his winter coat and trousers.

He was asleep within minutes.

Anatoly sighed and carded his fingers through his brother’s hair.

What happened wasn’t fair. What the Hell was God thinking, doing this to them? Maybe Anatoly deserved some of it, but Vladimir didn’t. His brother was innocent—he was too young to have committed sins worthy of this kind of punishment.

Vladimir had already been dubious when their mother would make them go to church and say prayers. Anatoly wasn’t sure what Vladimir would think of God now. He sighed and bent over to place a kiss on the top of Vladimir’s head. “I’ll keep us safe. You won’t have to worry.”

He closed the door as quietly as he could, wincing at the squeaking hinges. Feeling better now that Vladimir was asleep, Anatoly went back to the kitchenette where Sergei poured two cups of tea. “I’d make you coffee, but I’m assuming you want to sleep too—so I think something lighter will be better. Take the couch. I’ll be going to work shortly, so I won’t bother going back to sleep.”

“Sorry about that,” Anatoly said. “I’m very grateful for what you’ve done already. Even if this is you returning a favor.”

Sergei hummed. “Lucky for you that I owe you for bailing me out. If you hadn’t pulled that card on me, I probably wouldn’t have picked you up.”

Anatoly wrinkled his nose. “Really?”

“Well, I definitely wouldn’t have picked you up _then_. Probably later in the morning, when reasonable people are awake.” Sergei shot Anatoly an accusatory glance, but his eyes were smiling. Anatoly laughed. “But seriously. What happened?”

Silence filled the kitchenette. Steam rose from the mug of water in Anatoly’s hand. He watched the tea diffuse through the water, turning it a dull green. “Like I said at the train station. The Bratva came to our house. I guess they were tired of waiting on my father. He never came home and they sent two hitmen to kill us. They…” Anatoly trailed off, stared into his tea. His hand tightened around the mug. “Killed my mother, of course. She gave me the keys to her car, told me to take Vladimir and come to Moscow. I don’t know why she stayed. She could’ve come with us.”

He took a sip of his tea. It slid down his parched throat and settled in his stomach, warming him from inside. “She made her choice, though, and I must respect that,” he continued. “I’m just not sure what to do, now. I still have to take care of Vladimir.”

Sergei licked his lips and leaned against the countertop. “I’m sorry,” he said, but the words echoed empty. “Tell you what. Go take a nap. I’ll wake you up in two hours and I’ll see about getting you a job at the shop I work. Temporary, of course, but you’ll be able to save up some money at least, maybe put it towards your own place here. I’m assuming that Vladimir was in school when you left. Getting him transferred here will be difficult—if anything, you may want to get him a tutor or teach him yourself.”

At that, Anatoly snorted. Sergei rolled his eyes. “Fine, don’t teach him yourself. I’m guessing you want him to continuing his schooling, though.”

“Yes, absolutely. I don’t want him getting into trouble.”

“We’ll work on that, then.”

“Are you sure you’re okay doing all this?” Anatoly asked, eying Sergei. “This would be going well beyond the favor you owe me.”

“Eh, it’s not a big deal,” Sergei said. “You’re my friend. I help you, you help me. I won’t hold this against you—especially when you have a minor under your charge. Consider this my treat.”

Anatoly didn’t know what to say. “Thank you,” was all he managed to think of.

Sergei smiled. “Don’t mention it. Now, go get some sleep. Today will be better, I swear.”

#

_“Why are you telling the story from his point of view?”_

_Vladimir glances over at the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. A black mask covers the upper half of his face but the way the man’s head is angled down at him from above gives him the impression of eyes boring into him. It feels like the man is deciding whether or not it had been worth picking Vladimir’s half-corpse off the ground where he’d been laying in a pool of his own blood._

_The Devil had taken Vladimir to some dingy, poorly lit apartment on God-Knows-What Street in some dirty, wet part of Hell’s Kitchen—Vladimir doesn’t know the exact location, and given that Hell’s Kitchen is dirty and wet in_ most _parts, it probably doesn’t matter since he’d been unconscious the entire trip there—and dumped him on the softest sofa Vladimir had ever had the fortune of laying on. His first day of consciousness hadn’t really been consciousness. Vladimir had spent the time drifting in and out of awareness, unable to make out any details other than the figure of someone standing over him in all black. He’d wondered if the Devil had come to take him to Hell._

_He had been right about the Devil. Not so much about Hell._

_Vladimir is still unsure if his current situation is worse._

_Vladimir’s gaze focuses on the off-white ceiling. There’s nothing else to stare at, other than the Devil’s masked face, and Vladimir doesn’t want to look at any human being. There’s almost no furniture in the apartment, aside from a small coffee table, two arm chairs, and the sofa. Picking at the bandages wrapped around his upper body, he wonders if any of his tattoos got fucked up. He hopes they haven’t._

_“I don’t know,” Vladimir finally answers. The Devil shifts his weight, closes his fists and opens them again, lets his fingers rest at his sides._

_“You do,” the Devil says. “You just won’t tell me.”_

_“What is there to say? The story is always better from his perspective. I was young, my judgment was skewed. I was child. His version, it is cleaner. More truthful.”_

_“That doesn’t necessarily make your brother’s version of events more accurate,” he replies. Vladimir glances up just in time to see the Devil’s lips quirking up in an amused smile before it drops away and his expression returns to stone._

_“Maybe not,” Vladimir says. “But regardless, I like his story better.”_

_This seems to satisfy the Devil in some way. He moves away from the sofa and sits in one of the chairs on the other side of the coffee table._

_Silence hangs in the air._

_“You can continue,” the Devil says and Vladimir knows both of them know none of this information is relevant, but he has nothing left that the Devil wants. He told the Devil everything he knew when they were in the tunnels and when he’d woken up he’d answered whatever questions the Devil asked until he had no answers left to give. So Vladimir placates him with trivial nothings from a childhood he tries to keep locked away. Memories are unwanted distractions. There’s no place for them in the kind of business he runs._

_Used to run. Past tense, Vladimir remembers. He has nothing now. No empire, no friends, no brother. Whatever money he has is probably gone now, claimed by Fisk and the others, and he’ll be lucky if anything remains in the apartment he shared with Anatoly. They’d never said anything and Fisk had never made indications that he knew of their flat, but Vladimir knows that nothing can be hidden from that man. He supposes he’ll have to check the apartment later, when he’s able to walk again. He wants to see what it’s been stripped of. For now, though, he lays on the Devil’s couch; he can’t even sit up without agonizing pain and a wave of nausea._

_“Why?” Vladimir asks. “Does my past interest you suddenly?”_

_“A little bit,” the Devil admits. “I’m mostly curious about how someone gets into the human trafficking business. I’m assuming it wasn’t some life-long aspiration of yours.”_

_Vladimir wrinkles his nose. “I owe you no explanations.”_

_“But you’ll tell me anyway.”_

_And Vladimir does._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lada: Russian car modeled by AvtoVAZ that first started being built in the 70s  
> Yaroslavskaya station: a real place that exists somewhere in Moscow. Lord knows where exactly.  
> Bratva: Russian mafia/organized crime  
> \--  
> Everyone remembers Sergei, right? I just remembered he was constantly with Vladimir during the show until he died. I love bringing in familiar faces. Also, that thing I said about this maybe continuing? I did write a chapter 2. Maybe I'll write another. I don't know, man. I don't know. Oh, also Matt is here too, and Vladimir lives because I'm trash. Thanks for reading--feedback is always appreciated!
> 
> By the way! Each chapter is titled after a song. Some songs will have many others of the same name, some will not. See if you can figure out which songs are the right ones and take a listen to them. The songs I title each chapter are pretty much what I listened to while writing them. Think of it as a game. I mean, you probably won't win anything, but it'll still be fun.


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